Alternate Darias
by Charles RocketBoy
Summary: In an infinite universe, there are infinite possibilities... and all of them will get snarked if you put Daria in them. The following is a collection of some of these possible Darias, from the angsty to the utterly mental.
1. ImaJaneery

(AUTHOR'S NOTES: The following are assorted short stories that were written on Daria message board PPMB, in response to "Iron Chef" challenges: someone gives a situation or idea, and you run with it. Some of these stories may be more... _sensible_ than others!)

WHAT IF… JANE WAS JUST DARIA'S IMAGINARY FRIEND?

"I'm just saying you don't make friends as easily as... uh, some people."

"I'm talking about you making a friend or two."

Her parents weren't even _trying_ to be subtle anymore. A day or two, and they'd be trying to bribe Quinn to play with her. Again.

And now, she was stuck in this damn boring esteem class with this idiot and who the heck could she complain to about it? Anyone? No? Anyone _worth_ talking to?

Who would be worth talking to? Obviously another lazy, sarky girl. But... okay, maybe one that'd be a bit more active than she was. Willing to drag her along to new things, so they could have fun mocking them (nobody ever invited her to anything). Maybe another wri- no, that could cause arguments and rivalry. Artist, maybe. Daria was no good at art.

And this girl would say something cool like:

"He doesn't know what it means. He's got the speech memorized. Just enjoy the nice man's soothing voice."

Yeah.

* * *

On the walk home (because her parents were always going to be too busy to pick her up), she'd decided this girl should be called Jane. Nice, normal name. (She'd wanted one at times, at least one that couldn't be turned into a term for bowel movements)

Jane could tell her about the upcoming lessons (okay, O'Neill had told them at the end of class): "So, then, after the role-playing, next class they put the girls and the guys in separate rooms and a female counsellor talks to us about body image."

"What do they talk to the boys about?"

"A classroom full of guys and a male teacher?"

"Nocturnal emissions."

_Wow. I was right when I was ten and claimed talking to myself was the only way to get intelligent conversation._

* * *

She decided, later that day, she wanted out of esteem class and she'd learnt enough to con the teacher. This, of course, wouldn't be hard even if she'd learnt nothing.

What would Jane want to do?

"UFO conventions?"

"Now you're talking."

She'd had fun at the convention. Her parents seemed confused she kept muttering to herself - so she did it more. That's what Jane would've wanted.

* * *

Her parents started to get worried that she hadn't met anyone, but Jane was always around to talk to. It was starting to confuse some of the other kids, so she kept to talking to Jane at lunch: nobody else sat near her, so she was out of earshot.

* * *

Brittany had actually invited her to a party. _A party._ She wouldn't have gone, but Jane told her to go - as, of course, she always would. That was what Jane was for.

And Jane would do that even though... well, it was a party. There'd be real people to talk to. Some might be alright. She wouldn't need to have an imaginary friend after that. And the idea of losing Jane made her sad: Jane wasn't real, fine, but she was the type of person Daria _wished_ was real.

"I'll see you around," she said to nobody.

* * *

The party was a big mess of people and voice and life. And none of it talking to Daria, or paying her much attention.

She stood there, alone, bored, ignored, nothing she could think of to say to anyone.

"Look, Jane. Two types of chips."

"Flat or ridgy? You make the call."

"Thanks, Jane."

And then, shock of shocks, someone approached her.

"Chuck Ruttheimer, here. And you are...?"

"Daria," she said warily.

"I'll be your social director for the evening. Would your luscious self like a tour of the house? It's free."

Oh god, this guy was cheesy. "Do you accept tips?"

"Of course."

"Ditch the bangs."

"_Fei_sty!"

That... that wasn't how people normally reacted. They didn't normally put a hand on her shoulder - she shrugged it off on reflex.

_Jane, this is weird. Advice?_

_Hey, amiga, a real person and they're sticking around in the face of your famed charm. I say go with it. Not like Chucky can harm your social standing._

_Thanks, Jane. You're a great friend. I... I might be some time._

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll have the tour."


	2. Daria and Ayn

WHAT IF… DARIA MET AYN RAND AT SCHOOL?

"I'd like to know what 'actualizing your potential' _means_."

"It's meaningless babble by the oppressives, trying to force you into conventionalism," muttered the girl behind her.

"Now I want to know what _that_ means."

"He is attempting to force us into society's boxes and to ignore our _own_ interests, to make us one of the boring, lower people." There was a manic light in her eyes, like when Quinn had found out about a half-price sale with only an hour left.

"Well, I'm going to follow my interests in this class. I'm going to sleep."

She did.

* * *

When she woke up and it was time to go home, she found Ayn following her. It seemed she was a smart, misanthropic outcast too. In theory, this would be good.

In theory.

"... and she told me the most important thing in life to her was her _mother_. Can you imagine? I consider this the first most important event in my life socially: to be intelligent and popular, you have to _restrict_ your intelligence and deliberately live within the dull prisons of society. I had thought she was a serious girl and that she was after serious things, but she was just conventional and ordinary, a mediocrity, and she didn't mean _anything_ as a person."

"I'd hate to see what you'd think if she'd said 'masturbating'."

The girl stared at her with irritance. "Don't interrupt me."

It went downhill from there. Eventually, Daria had to resort to the unthinkable.

* * *

"Hi, sis!"

Quinn looked at Daria with immediate suspicion. "If this is something about cosmetics testing again..."

"No way, sis, my darling sister who I am related to and love-"

"Have you been _taking_ something?"

"Could you help Ayn and me with makeovers? I'd like to change my wardrobe to try and attract boys."

Ayn stared in horror. "_I thought you were a worthy person, Daria. GOODBYE._"

After she stormed out of the house, Daria sighed. "I'm going to regret this, but I need you to _actually_ help me put on make-up so she doesn't work out I was faking."

"Oh, Daria, I've waited for this day-"

_Oh *****._

_

* * *

_

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The "mother" speech is a reworking of some real quotes from Rand that were put in the Iron Chef challenge OP. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.


	3. The Long Con

WHAT IF… DARIA WENT TO MILITARY SCHOOL?

**The Long Con**

The end of year at Buxton Ridge had a rite of passage - the playing of the last call, next to the memorial for the alumni who'd been lost in action. Cadet Morgendorffer, clad in immaculate dress uniform, had noted there were a lot of names.

This was it. The end. Ninth grade had been and gone, and it was time to see how it had worked.

* * *

_For as long as she could remember, she'd known her grandfather upset her parents - and that her dad was scared of him. After the two had talked and he went off on a rant, _she_ was scared of _dad_. At age 6, she'd realised one of things they argued about was her._

* * *

Her salute was as immaculate as her uniform, her at-ease posture just the same. She'd practiced.

Soon, it'd be time to see the family again.

* * *

_Every month, the same thing: her father and grandfather would fight viciously over her, her father refusing to accept the idea of sending her to Buxton Ridge to "straighten her out" (and she picked up early that there was another meaning there). And half the time after he'd raise the subject of sending her to the Ridge with her mother, fear of "Mad Dog" forcing down on him._asked_ to be sent._

Finally, at the end of eighth grade, Daria herself had stepped in and

* * *

She strode out towards the waiting parents, her certificate for the year under her arm. She could see her parents, her father nervous; she could see Quinn, feeling out of place; and then her grandfather.

"Alrighty then."

* * *

_She excelled in everything academic from the start, but that was no challenge. The technical classes, those were a challenge but one she could master. Shooting... well, she was adequate by the end of the year._stopped_: she may come in last for every exercise but she still finished them, and then went on to do the next._

The real problem was anything involving physical exertion, and there were LOTS of those. A year and she was still short, weak, and slow. That would've failed her except that she never

Some of the other girls had seen as her as a weak target and given her grief until Daria had challenged them to a fifty-lap race; Daria was still doing the race hours later, her feet blistered to hell, and the sight of that was so unnerving they never dared say boo to her afterwards. The older students, impressed, ended up adopting her as a mascot, and she learnt a lot of things three years early. She liked hanging with them, she felt she had equals at last.

(There were also some guys who'd tried to attack her one time, but she shoved her pen up the nose of the leader and then smashed her thumb into the wound. When one of the teachers questioned her on this, asking why didn't she run, she recited the recent lesson on pre-emptive strikes.)

Daria, everyone came to realise, was damn well determined to do the best she possibly could.

* * *

"Ninth grade passed with honours," she said to her family, smiling her half smile. "It didn't seem very honourable at the time, but hey. _Hi, SIS!_"

She hugged Quinn without mercy, but was slightly touched to see Quinn's protests - "Ewwww! The cute guys will think we're RELATED!" - sounded more like habit than anything truly meant.

Her grandfather looked at her with approval. "Daria-"

"Dad?"

"K-Kiddo?" He sounded nervous, clearly a man who'd spent a year fretting.

"Those stories you told me about the canteen? You _censored_ them. I hear they dump the spare engine oil in there."

"In my day, we said they dumped the flunked cadets in there!" He grimaced at the memory. "Ewww-www-_wwww!_"

Her grandfather cleared his throat. "Daria-"

"I am officially the highest academic achiever in the ninth grade class, and I can... well, complete a two mile hike." She turned to her mother. "So Camp Grizzly can suck it."

"_Daria, where did you learn such lang-_ Oh, yes, military school. I was forgetting."

"Well, now I've proven I _can_ do it..." Daria shrugged, a 'no big deal' gesture. "I'd kinda like to go back to normal high school. Live at home again."

Her parents beamed. "Sweetie, that would-"

"DARIA!" cut in her grandfather.

She spun round to fix him with a glare and tone she'd been practicising for months. "When not used by friends and family, addressing a soldier by their first name is a sign of disrespect - YOU will address me as CADET MORGENDORFFER, civilian!"

"How DARE you talk to me in such-"

"You have no rank or standing here, _'sir'._ This meeting is for cadets and their families only, and since you're in neither group I suggest you leave the premises."

"Mad Dog" Morgendorffer, the terror of her family, the man who'd turned her father into a wreck, just stood and stared at her.

"You will be assumed as _hostile_ if you don't leave."

The great man, deflated and confused, walked off, looking like just another old man.

"Dad, I really hope he drove down himself and he isn't sharing our car, or I just made a tactical error."

Her job was done.

Grandad thought she'd turned out wrong.


	4. A WellAdjusted World

WHAT IF… DARIA WAS ACTUALLY WELL-ADJUSTED, SOCIABLE, AND NICE?

Manson listened, mouth agape, as Daria Morgendorffer, in _that_ monotone voice, gave such a cheerful, upbeat discussion of true love and happiness to the blank figures.

_Well, she certainly doesn't need the self-esteem class! What a well-adjusted young lady! I can only imagine what the world will be like with her in it..._

* * *

Three years later.

The half-burnt ruins of Lawndale High School, site of so much horror over the last few years, caused every soldier in the Maryland Rifles to have creeping horrors - especially the "DRINK SODA" scrawled in human blood - but it was still the strategic high ground.

"Confirmed, Lima Papa Two, hold position and await further instruction." Captain Eichler turned from the radio set to the stern, half-scarred form of Acting-General Bernstein. "Two reports having DeWitt-Clinton pinned down, but they think some of his victims are _still alive_ in there."

"Lima Papa Three still free?" he rumbled.

"Yes, sir."

"Task them to come round the back on foot and make surprise raid."

"Sir." She pressed to transmit. "Lima Hotel Sierre to Lima Papa Two..."

Bernstein surveyed the battlefield map: a large screen showing the positions of every patrol, hostile, and safe zone in the Lawndale County Exclusion Zone, updated every five seconds. Three months in this hellhole and he still didn't get it - sure, _everywhere_ had been hit by the global recession when both Halloween and Christmas failed for no reason back in 2000, but why was Lawndale so much worse than anywhere else? And weird things had happened before then too.

No matter. He just had to handle the job.

Lima Papa One were on recon duty to see what Amazon Modelling was up to with all the vulnerable Lawndale girls they were getting. Two and Three had that maniac DeWitt-Clinton cornered (had no one ever taught him basic human interaction?). Four were keeping the woods clear of whatever was in them eating people. Five to Seven were on routine patrol but attack could come from anywhere -the Crewe Neck "government" and their scumbag mercenaries under Conroy were acting up again. That left half the Rifles, just in case-

"_Attack warning red!_" screamed Eichler. "Glitterberry freaks incoming!"

"Strength?"

"Watchtower estimates one hundred plus, Mad Jake himself in lead! Coming up our rear!"

Bernstein hit the alarm button, warning everyone to arm up and prepare for contact.


	5. Crash and Burnt

WHAT IF… DARIA TRIED TO HELP AND FAILED?

It was visiting hours at Lawndale General Hospital. Daria was there, as she was on every second day. Her right arm still lay in a cast, stitches still on her scalp, sat in a wheelchair. She had a bookbag sitting neatly in her lap.

"I'm here to see-"

"No need for formalities, Miss Morgendorffer. Go right in."

"Thanks."

"Do you need any hel-"

"No."

"I know, I know, but I have to ask."

Daria wheeled herself – well, it was electronic, but she'd been practicing wheeling for when her right arm was free – over to the intensive care ward. She'd started when she herself had been there, and finally able to get out of bed.

_The roads back from the paintball course had been treacherous in the rain and the mud, and the school buses were driving carefully – other drivers weren't. Daria didn't remember the impact, she'd been bashed unconscious; waking up had been a nightmare, her glasses missing and the bus lurching and the screams and the realisation they'd been hit on the BRIDGE, the bus was starting to TIP –_  
She didn't remember much about the fall, though she wet the bed at night. She'd been badly hit but had been lucky enough to roll and not take spinal damage, they told her.

Kevin's leg had snapped in the crash and he was in an awkward place – the other injured had been able to be moved, but not him. Daria, last off the bus, paused before leaving – Kevin was screaming for Mack, for Brittany, for anyone – and then headed back in to drag the boy out.

"Come on! Stop screaming and push with your other leg! Help me help you!"

"It hurts! It huurrrrrrts!"

"You're the QB, damn it! You're tough, you're manly, right? RIGHT?"

"I-I-I-"

"One hundred bottles of BEER on the wall – come on, Kevin, focus, stay with me, PUSH! ONE HUNDRED BOTTLES SAY IT!"

"One- one- one hundred bottles of beer on the wall…"

The bus was starting to lurch further, slowly, horribly. She wasn't going to make it.

"COME ON! COME-"

The bus fell.

Kevin was still in the ward, his eyes still closed as they'd been since the accident.

"Hey. Me again." She paused, thinking of something to say. "You know, I've heard your brainwaves are good, they think you'll come out of this during the week. Guess these talks are helping. Of course, everyone else's talks could be helping and I could just be sending you back to sleep, but…"

She reached into her bag and brought out the comic.

"The Adventures of Ratboy – the Exterminator Excelsior?, Part 2 of 4. The cover has the Verminator drawn as a giant, crushing a tiny Ratboy underfoot – that's symbolic, by the way, it doesn't happen in the issue. Page 1…"

She'd failed once. She was damned if she wasn't going to try again.


	6. When Tommy Goes Lurching Home

WHAT IF… TOMMY SHERMAN ROSE AS A ZOMBIE?

The first thing Tommy noticed was that he was stuck in a coffin: pitch-black, enclosed, a prison.

The second was that it was ***** boring down there. I mean, dude, they could've buried him with some porn or something, right? What's a guy supposed to do down there? Screw this man, Tommy Sherman is getting _out_.

(Breaking through wood and digging up through six feet of dirt took a while, but he got through by reminding himself that the _Oakwood_ players would _laugh at TOMMY SHERMAN_ if he couldn't.)

Once he _was_ out, he had to think what to do next. That was a tough one. What _do_ zombies do? He had a feeling he'd be expected to eat brains but he wasn't really that hungry. Should he do it to fit in? Guess it depended on whose brains (a brain's brains? Guh, Tommy Sherman had _standards_, man). Should he wait around the graveyard or what?

Then it hit him: Lawndale High. He hadn't seen his goalpost (well, not properly). And they might have some other memorials too! Yeah, sure they would! He was TOMMY SHERMAN, they'd have lots of memorials for HIM. He was going to see them. Yeah, that'd show... er... Whatserface, that ugly girl, yeah, _her_.

He lurched towards the school, a bit annoyed it was taking so long (***** ricky morts or whatever the hell it was), though he did enjoy it when Mrs Barch saw him and ran off screaming in terror. That was _awesome_, man. (Should he eat her brains? Kinda tempting, she made him do, like, _work_ in class. What was up with that?) But the school would sort everything out.

This would be _great._ He was going to see his legacy. He was going to see how everyone missed him.

He saw a broken crutch stuck in the dirt with "Tommy Sherman Memorial Tree" written on it.

He turned round, went back to his coffin, and never came out again.


	7. Wrong Where It Hurts

**WHAT IF... "WRITE WHERE IT HURTS" HAD GONE HORRIBLY WRONG?**

"Oh, hi, sweetie."

Daria held up a tray, grinning her unnaturally large grin. "I baked these cookies for you! They're shaped like hearts!"

"Thank you, Daria. Come on in," said Helen, opening the door. "How's the little one?"

She patted the small infant strapped to her chest. The infant farted. "Same as usual. You?"

"You know, every morning it's a little harder to get out of bed-"

"Huh huh huh," laughed Daria's husband. "You said _harder_."

"Your father, on the other hand, seems to be getting younger every day. Ever since he retired he's developed such a wonderful perspective."

Daria nodded, still grinning. Her teeth glistened like knives. As she spoke, she took her baby off and put it on the table. Helen trembled slightly as she looked at it, and hurriedly said:

"Butt-Head! How's work?"

He blinked. "Whoa. I knew there was something I forgot to do today."

"...I enjoyed your column this week, sweetie!"

"LOTS of people prefer the beach to the mountains, it seems," she said through a wall of teeth, while fussing over the Crawling Thing.

"Beaches have, like, bikinis. Huh huh huh."

"Hh hh hh!" responded the infant.

The door opened again as Quinn entered, a parade of boisterous children with her.

"Give me that!"

"No, it's mine!"

"Mommy!"

The baby turned round, a _huge_ head with an upturned nose and a giant toothy grin on its face that was not biologically possible. Quinn's children looked at it and started to cry.

"You know where Grandma's TV is, go watch something educational!" said Quinn desperately, and the kids fled with thanks in theri hearts.

"Hh hh hh," responded the baby.

Butt-head patted its head. "My daughter is _cool_," he said proudly.

Quinn covered her own baby's eyes. "Ahahaha... I don't know about you, Daria, but I swear, one of these days I'm going to slip something into my husband's beer" ("Huh huh huh. She said slip in.") "and, while he's unconscious, I'm going to go out and get my tubes tied."

"Better yet, _his_ tubes," said Daria, grinning more as she contemplated it. She chuckled sinisterly, and Quinn laughed in a nervous attempt to placate her.

"H-How's Dad then?"

"I'm great!" announced the elderly Jake, coming down. On sight of Daria's baby, he went: "Goo-goo!" Then, as it looked back at him: "EEEWWW-WWW-_WWW_!"

"Hh hh hh hh hh"


	8. Is It Busted Yet?

WHAT IF DARIA HAD BEEN LYING ALL ALONG?

"And so, I give you the winner of this year's Lawndale High School Diane Fossey Award for dazzling academic achievement in the face of near-total misanthropy... Ms. Daria Morgendorffer!"

Daria took to the stage, and that was Angela's first clue that something was wrong. The little hellion looked _confident_. Like something had just happened that helped her.

"Thank you," said Daria into the mike. "I'm not much for public speaking, or much for speaking, or, come to think of it, much for the public. And I'm not very good at lying. So I should tell you it's _not _Ms Daria Morgendorffer."

And to Angela's horror, she took out a badge from her coat pocket.

"It's _Department of Education Special Investigator_ Daria Morgendorffer. Don't try to run, Lawndale's quote finest unquote are stationed at all exits."


End file.
